One Little Tory Bouncing on the Bed
Tory was bouncing on Abbie’s bed last night. This was in brazen defiance of our frequent warning songs about monkeys who bump their heads after bouncing and falling off the bed.
I let my kids do some dangerous things. They run with screwdrivers. They climb on countertops. They chew on artifacts excavated from our sandlot. I do my best to discourage such behavior, but if I’m busy with chores, and the only thing standing between us and a time consuming tantrum is a screwdriver, I’m going to let him have fun as long as he doesn’t try to ram the point into anything or anyone.
Tory was bouncing on the bed while bedtime neared. I had too much to clean before their rooms were habitable, he was having fun, and so I let him go. Mommy kept an eye on everyone while I deposited filthy dishes in the sink, leaving little to worry about.
When I heard a scream, I didn’t pay much attention. Someone is usually screaming in our house, usually over the deprivation of a basic right such as the right to be carried or the right to eat graham crackers. When mommy whisked him into the bathroom and told me she needed help, I paid a little more attention.
Tory had fallen and hit his head on the bed frame. Abbie has a wooden bed frame full of charm, whimsy, and hard corners. His forehead connected with one of the corners, and was bleeding profusely. When we slowed the bleeding, we could see a gash on his forehead about an inch long, and a quarter inch deep. Who knew that all those childhood warning I’d received about falling and splitting my head open were accurate?
The bleeding stopped thanks to pressure and a bandage. The screaming stopped thanks to songs and ibuprofen. Mommy, though, determined the cut was too deep to leave for the night. She strapped his pajama-laden body into the car and drove to the emergency room while I stayed with Ian and Abbie.
I thought that putting the kids through the bedtime routine minus one sibling would throw them off kilter, so I tried to keep them awake. That turned out to be no problem. Ian was happy to have both cow blankets to himself. Abbie hid in the closet reading, excited that I had forgotten to put her to bed.
Tory only needed some glue across the cut, and was back home quickly by ER standards. Everyone went to bed about 45 minutes later than usual, and nobody complained about the late bedtime until I shut the light off.
We took a close look at Tory’s wound this morning. It looks ugly, but it should heal fine. It will probably leave a scar, but hopefully it’ll be the kind you only notice after looking directly at it. Abbie has one of those, a reminder of our “how could something that makes them happy be dangerous” parenting style.
I let my kids do some dangerous things. They run with screwdrivers. They climb on countertops. They chew on artifacts excavated from our sandlot. I do my best to discourage such behavior, but if I’m busy with chores, and the only thing standing between us and a time consuming tantrum is a screwdriver, I’m going to let him have fun as long as he doesn’t try to ram the point into anything or anyone.
Tory was bouncing on the bed while bedtime neared. I had too much to clean before their rooms were habitable, he was having fun, and so I let him go. Mommy kept an eye on everyone while I deposited filthy dishes in the sink, leaving little to worry about.
When I heard a scream, I didn’t pay much attention. Someone is usually screaming in our house, usually over the deprivation of a basic right such as the right to be carried or the right to eat graham crackers. When mommy whisked him into the bathroom and told me she needed help, I paid a little more attention.
Tory had fallen and hit his head on the bed frame. Abbie has a wooden bed frame full of charm, whimsy, and hard corners. His forehead connected with one of the corners, and was bleeding profusely. When we slowed the bleeding, we could see a gash on his forehead about an inch long, and a quarter inch deep. Who knew that all those childhood warning I’d received about falling and splitting my head open were accurate?
The bleeding stopped thanks to pressure and a bandage. The screaming stopped thanks to songs and ibuprofen. Mommy, though, determined the cut was too deep to leave for the night. She strapped his pajama-laden body into the car and drove to the emergency room while I stayed with Ian and Abbie.
I thought that putting the kids through the bedtime routine minus one sibling would throw them off kilter, so I tried to keep them awake. That turned out to be no problem. Ian was happy to have both cow blankets to himself. Abbie hid in the closet reading, excited that I had forgotten to put her to bed.
Tory only needed some glue across the cut, and was back home quickly by ER standards. Everyone went to bed about 45 minutes later than usual, and nobody complained about the late bedtime until I shut the light off.
We took a close look at Tory’s wound this morning. It looks ugly, but it should heal fine. It will probably leave a scar, but hopefully it’ll be the kind you only notice after looking directly at it. Abbie has one of those, a reminder of our “how could something that makes them happy be dangerous” parenting style.
posted by Matt at
11:34 PM
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